


Milk and Honey

by TinyWinterSnake



Category: Captain Marvel (2019), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23310070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyWinterSnake/pseuds/TinyWinterSnake
Summary: The problem is that honey and sugar can both be used for tea: sugar in tea meant to be served cold and sweet, the tea that Carol puts in glasses that sweat just to watch the condensation transfer from glass to skin, dripping down Maria’s wrist; honey in tea meant to be served hot and soothing, the tea that Carol makes to warm the cold of Maria’s fingers, stiff and tingling from mornings spent shoveling snow.Or: a study in intimacy and the tiny, inconsequential details that make a life.
Relationships: Carol Danvers/Maria Rambeau
Comments: 16
Kudos: 75





	Milk and Honey

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired two songs:
> 
> 1\. Honey by Raveena  
> 2\. Tea, Milk & Honey by Oh Pep!
> 
> and my strong feelings about sweeteners. I, however, am a heathen and will only use Splenda in my drinks.
> 
> Thank you for reading :) I just made a tumblr for my work so feel free to come hmu @ tinywintersnake.tumblr.com

Maria takes her coffee with milk and honey. It’s awful: inexplicably strange, and Carol laughs, sitting at the kitchen island, watching nimble fingers twirl the honey dipper, trying to explain why it makes sense that sugar and artificial sweeteners go in coffee but honey is for tea. The problem is that honey and sugar can both be used for tea: sugar in tea meant to be served cold and sweet, the tea that Carol puts in glasses that sweat just to watch the condensation transfer from glass to skin, dripping down Maria’s wrist; honey in tea meant to be served hot and soothing, the tea that Carol makes to warm the cold of Maria’s fingers, stiff and tingling from mornings spent shoveling snow. Maria latches onto these inconsistencies as they rehash an old argument, asks her how she can be so vehemently against something she’s never tried, hides her curling lips behind an oversized mug as she listens to Carol rant about principles, moral decisions, and good taste. 

Sometimes, she jokes that for someone who has genuinely bad taste at the best of times, the argument could be made that Carol does, to some extent, possess good taste because she’s dating Maria. Sometimes, she sips and plots and tries and fails to switch their mugs and trick her into trying it, always foiled by the distinctive scent of red clover. Rarely, in an action reserved for only the safest of mornings, when the fondness warming her cheeks outweighs the gut-clenching anticipation of interruption, she leans forward and kisses the words from Carol’s lips. 

She leans in.

She doesn’t immediately go for the lips, has always harbored a distaste for the dramatic mid-sentence kisses favored by romantic comedies and period dramas, thinks it rather rude to interrupt someone while they speak, will only make an exception for the incoherent babbling that Carol kisses off of her somewhere between rounds two and three. Rather, she sets her mug to the side, rests her elbows on the counter, and threads their fingers together, does her best to stay attentive while also sneaking glances at her lips. For her part Carol finishes up her rant, perhaps a bit earlier than intended, and leans in too. 

The kiss is sweet, soft, closed-mouth but not tentative, heads tilted so their noses brush but don’t knock. The kiss starts slow and deliberate, builds into something a little less cinema and a little more messy, soft pants falling from wet lips to meet in the scant space between them. Carol’s got one hand beneath her shirt, splayed across the top of her ribs, fingers resting lightly on the skin beneath her breasts. Bare, because safe mornings are not meant to be contained in molds of nylon and silk, like her thoughts can’t seem to be contained in her head because she means to pull away for a moment. Just a second: long enough to put the banana bread in the oven because it’s been preheated for a minute and they’ll be hungry if they keep this up, but her thoughts seem to flow out, riding on a sharp exhale with the first pass of Carol’s thumb over her nipple. 

Hopefully, using slow-acting baking powder will work out for them, because the small, sly smile she receives in return for pressing up into the touch doesn’t lend well to saving their breakfast. The pan stays on the counter, they head back to their bed. The backs of Maria’s knees hit the edge and she folds, positions herself in the center. She pushes herself up on a stack of pillows, the irony not lost on her in the slightest and she stays, watching, but does lift her hips to help ease the slide of her panties off. She likes this part the most, watching Carol tie her hair back into a sloppy bun and then: the first feeling of exposure, the first rush of cool air that tightens her nipples as she parts her legs, the cocky way Carol teases one finger through the mounting slickness, smugly,

“You always this easy, honey, or s’just me?”

saying something to give her that heady, anticipatory shiver she craves right before she lowers her mouth, hot and wet and welcome. It’s good -- it’s been good since those first few nights together, spend wrapped up in the scratchy fabric of cheap linen getting acquainted with one another -- and it doesn’t take long to get her writhing, one hand tangled in Carol’s hair and tugging insistently, the other alternating between cupping her breasts and rolling her nipples between her fingers. The pressure builds quickly but her orgasm comes slowly, courtesy of Carol’s tendency to stop, rake her fingers down the sensitive flesh of Maria’s trembling thighs and press gentle kisses to the top of her pubic mound. She bucks when it’s finally allowed to wash over her, trying to break the iron grip Carol’s got on her hips as she tips over into oversensitivity. 

She settles slowly, with a series of increasingly desperate sounds, and chases the taste of herself off of her wife’s lips when she finally deigns to come up for air. 

It’s calm, sweet, not chaste but it could stop there. She snakes a hand between them instead, thumbs small, slow circles that she knows aren’t quite enough.

It takes a while to tire of the way Carol’s body rocks into her hand, one hand gripping tight on her shoulder, most of her blonde hair spilling out of the bun and onto the sheets. She does though, or rather, she wants to chase something greater so she makes a show of pulling her fingers away and into her mouth. She shifts down, tugs Carol up until she gets the hint and raises to her knees, swinging one leg over to frame her face with her thighs. She likes this too, likes Carol caressing one cheek with the pad of her thumb and,

“Look so pretty like this,”

still finding it in her to slur out something sweet. Maria could say the same. She likes looking up at the way Carol’s stomach tightens and flexes as she rocks back onto her tongue, the sunlight peeking through their mostly-shuttered blinds and glinting off of the bars through Carol’s nipples, the scent of vanilla and patchouli from the expensive lotion they use on the days they feel soft and secure. 

Carol likes feeling full so Maria pushes two fingers in alongside her tongue and revels in the long, low moan that lets her know she’s close. She’s merciful, so she doesn’t try to stop it, but she’s also ruthless, so she drags it out until the prickly pleasure of overstimulation has Carol biting her fist for some release. 

They lay together for some time after, sticky and sated and overly-warm, trading barely-there kisses until the muted peace of their afterglow is interrupted by a rumbling stomach. Still, they take a long, indulgent shower, rehash a worn but comfortable argument about the merits of leaving the door cracked to keep the mirror from fogging versus keeping it closed to keep the room warm, then throw off the vibe anyway by using body washes that don’t clash, but also don’t necessarily go together. 

Carol drinks her new coffee with cream and sugar; It’s only right. Maria pillows her head on her forearms, pulls one leg up beneath her, and watches Carol make another cup. A splash of milk, a bit of honey. The kitchen smells like spice. 


End file.
